Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN HE COULDN'T ORDER HOME
“Vincent just ordered me to find you.”
Those were the first words Leo Santoro said when I answered my phone.
I was sitting in a small kitchen in Milwaukee, wearing an old gray sweater and holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes earlier.
For the first time in seven years, I had slept somewhere my husband couldn't walk into without permission.
And now his most trusted man was calling.
“Then you're going to disappoint him,” I said.
Leo was quiet.
He had worked for the Moretti family for thirty-two years. He had carried Vincent home after his father's funeral, protected him through two attempts on his life, and stood beside him at our wedding.
He was also the man who had once told me, “If Vincent ever hurts you, don't expect me to lie about it.”
I wondered whether he remembered.
“Claire, he came home yesterday. He's not handling this well.”
“Neither did I. For seven years.”
“I know.”
Something in his voice made me straighten.
“What exactly do you know, Leo?”
Another silence.
“Enough to understand why you left.”
I looked through the kitchen window.
My friend Ruth Parker's little house stood on a quiet street three blocks from Lake Michigan.
Ruth and I had been friends since college. She owned a bookkeeping business, drove a twelve-year-old Subaru, and didn't care whether my husband owned half the luxury hotels in Chicago.
When I arrived on Friday afternoon with two suitcases, she hadn't asked why.
She had simply opened the door and said, “Your room is upstairs.”
Now I was beginning to wonder whether that room would be safe for long.
“Have you told Vincent where I am?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
That surprised me.
“Leo, you work for him.”
“I've spent thirty-two years protecting that family. You're family too.”
I swallowed.
For seven years, I had wanted someone inside Vincent's world to acknowledge that my suffering mattered.
Now that someone had, I didn't know what to say.
Then Leo added something that changed everything.
“Claire, there's another reason I called.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
“Your name appeared on a property transfer yesterday.”
“What property?”
“Rosalie House.”
My coffee cup nearly slipped from my hand.
Rosalie House was a transitional housing program on Chicago's North Side.
Vincent's mother had established it almost twenty years earlier to help women rebuilding their lives after abusive marriages, financial ruin, or homelessness.
Rosalie Moretti had been a formidable woman.
She could silence a roomful of mobsters with a raised eyebrow, then spend her afternoon teaching a sixty-year-old widow how to balance a checkbook.
Before she died four years earlier, she had placed my hands around a small brass key.
“Look after the house, Claire,” she'd whispered. “Vincent understands power. I want you to understand what it should be used for.”
I had promised her.
For years, I organized fundraising dinners, delivered groceries, helped residents prepare résumés, and personally reviewed the foundation's quarterly reports.
Then Vincent's business office began handling the finances.
Peter Voss, his chief financial officer, assured me everything was running smoothly.
I had trusted him.
Apparently, that had been another mistake.
“Rosalie House isn't for sale,” I told Leo.
“Someone filed paperwork saying otherwise.”
“Who?”
“According to the transfer request, you.”
My stomach turned.
“That isn't possible.”
“I thought you'd say that.”
“Send me everything.”
“I can't. Not through the company system. But I'll help you get the public filing.”
“Does Vincent know?”
“He knows I'm looking into it.”
That answer was too careful.
“Leo.”
“Yes?”
“Don't make decisions about my life just because you think you're protecting me.”
He sighed.
“Fair enough.”
After we hung up, I sat motionless.
I had left Vincent because of his affairs.
I hadn't expected to discover that my name might be attached to something far worse.
Ruth came downstairs carrying a basket of laundry.
“You look like somebody just handed you another problem.”
“They did.”
She set the basket down.
“Then finish your coffee. Problems are easier to face when your hands aren't shaking.”
By noon, we were sitting at her dining room table, examining the Cook County property records.
The documents showed a pending transfer involving Rosalie House and a holding company called Northbridge Property Partners.
The proposed sale price was $4.8 million.
My signature appeared beneath the words:
Authorized Trustee: Claire Moretti.
I stared at it.
Someone had copied my handwriting almost perfectly.
The long curve on the C.
The narrow spacing in my last name.
Even the small upward stroke I always made beneath the final letter.
But I had never signed that paper.
And the date was Thursday morning.
The same Thursday Vincent had stood beside his suitcase while I asked which hotel he planned to take his mistress to.
At 10:12 that morning, I had been in our bedroom.
I hadn't gone anywhere.
“That's fraud,” Ruth said.
“I know.”
“We need someone who can help you challenge it.”
I opened the folder containing the original documents I had brought from Lake Forest.
Bank statements.
Copies of our marriage certificate.
My passport.
Financial records I had quietly collected during the final months of our marriage.
I had prepared for a divorce.
I hadn't prepared to defend myself against a crime I didn't commit.
Ruth pointed toward the USB drive attached to my key ring.
“Is that the backup?”
“One of three.”
She nodded approvingly.
“Good. Don't let anyone convince you to hand over the originals.”
That afternoon, I called Nora Bennett, the director of Rosalie House.
Nora had worked there since Rosalie was alive.
When she heard my voice, she began crying.
“Claire, I didn't know how to reach you.”
“What happened?”
“They've been telling us the building is being transferred to new management. Peter says the foundation can't afford to keep operating.”
“That's ridiculous. We have an endowment.”
“He says the money is gone.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“How much?”
“Almost all of it.”
I remembered our last financial statement.
More than two million dollars reserved for operating expenses and emergency housing assistance.
Money donated by families who trusted Rosalie's name.
“Don't sign anything,” I told her.
“Claire, I already refused.”
“Good.”
“But there's something else.”
Her voice broke.
“The women received notices. They have until Friday to leave.”
Friday.
Four days away.
“I'm coming tomorrow,” I said.
“Does Mr. Moretti know?”
“I don't care what Mr. Moretti knows.”
That night, Vincent sent me a message.
Claire. I know you're angry. Please tell me you're safe.
I read it.
Then another appeared.
I'm not asking you to forgive me. Just let me know you're okay.
For a moment, I remembered the man who used to call me every night.
Then I remembered the hotel receipts.
I typed a reply.
I'm safe. Don't send anyone after me. I will contact you when I'm ready.
He answered almost immediately.
I understand.
I wanted to believe him.
But belief was what had gotten me into this marriage's darkest years.
The following morning, I drove south to Chicago.
Ruth insisted on coming.
By ten thirty, we were standing outside Rosalie House.
The redbrick building looked exactly as I remembered.
White curtains.
Flower boxes beneath the windows.
The wooden bench where Rosalie had liked to sit with her afternoon tea.
But a bright notice had been taped beside the entrance.
I read it once.
Then again.
NOTICE OF PROPERTY TRANSFER AND REQUIRED VACANCY.
At the bottom, beneath the proposed relocation date, was a name.
Mine.
Someone had made me responsible for throwing vulnerable women out of the very house I had promised to protect.
Then Nora stepped outside holding a second envelope.
“This was delivered separately,” she whispered.
Inside was a copy of the sale authorization.
Across the bottom, in bold type, someone had written:
All objections have been waived by Claire Moretti.
And beneath that sentence was a handwritten instruction.
Proceed regardless of resident complaints. Mrs. Moretti has approved immediate removal.
I recognized the signature.
But I recognized something else too.
The handwriting above it belonged to someone I had trusted for years.
Someone who had sat at my dinner table.
Someone Vincent had repeatedly told me was practically family.
May you like
Peter Voss.
And suddenly, my husband's betrayal looked like only the beginning.
